Sunday morning. 2:43am. Central Wisconsin.
The stars are utterly fabulous tonight. Maybe the earth moved to another neighborhood while I was sleeping. That would explain why I’m so completely disoriented, despite familiar surroundings.
My body clock is broken. Tonight I went to bed at 8:30. I *never* do that. Yet despite a fairly leisurely day, I was exhausted. To make matters worse, I went to bed in the middle of the Red Sox playoff game, which they were winning. I never do that, either. (Did they win? GO SAWX!)
I chalked my strange behavior up to several unsuccessful attempts to siphon gasoline from my car this afternoon, so we could run the mower. A few thousand dead brain cells later, I gave it up and drove the 8+ miles to the nearest filling station. (Nobody ever says that no more: fillin’ station. I must be regressing to some past life, where I was a Tennessee trucker.)
The other odd thing was how/why I woke up. I had a dream that my friend, the Right Reverend Thomas Willadsen, called me on the Haman/”Heyman” Phone to ask if I wanted an extra ticket to the Bears game today. While trying to wake up (it was 2am in my dream as well… the real Tom would have no reason to be up this late), I tried explaining that he’d called on the Heyman phone, which is somehow associated with the Jewish Purim tradition, and the notorious bad guy named Haman that they burn in effigy every year (or something like that).
When Tom was puzzled about the Heyman phone (“You’ve never heard of it?”), I said never mind, then asked what time the Bears played. He told me noon, which was why he was calling in the wee hours, in case I needed to set some plans in motion. So I rummaged around in my brain for a reason *not* to uproot my family this morning at 7am, and then I said yes, I wanted the ticket.
A few seconds later, back in the real world, my dog barked. Apparently he was listening in on my dream, and barked to tell me I’m an idiot. He’s a bad dog. Maybe he was Haman in a previous incarnation.